


The Lost One

by Sgeulaiche



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John-centric, Patient loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sgeulaiche/pseuds/Sgeulaiche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even a great doctor loses one every once in a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lost One

**Author's Note:**

> My first real piece!
> 
> It's only partially beta'ed--more like read-over and given a teary eyed thumbs up instead of ruthlessly edited.

One, two, three, four…

His lithe steps were unusually heavy tonight as he headed upstairs to their flat. John rubbed his eyebrows—what now? Did he just pretend it didn't happen? He laughed, letting out a shaky sigh as he fished for his keys—he hadn't been some worked up about –that- since he was in residency. He could see himself now—a touch taller, a bit thinner, his face still sweet and smooth but contorted into crushing sobs as he stood over the operating table. “You did everything you could,” His resident would say, offering little more than canned kind words. 

Then he grew braver, stronger—patched up soldiers for a living like some macabre seamstress. He sucked his lips into a pale, straight line. Chin up, chest out, shoulders back. 

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. 

“Hello!” John called out, setting his things down as he snooped around the flat for his elusive flatmate, who left little trace today: no trail of acid burnt floor, no smoke, no jubilant “Eureka!” or distraught groans. “Sherlock? Hello?” “-me that she had her cosmetic bag taken after the death blow was given, don’t you think, John?” Sherlock was still wrapped in a blanket, as it was a touch too could for his usual sheet toga, and hunched over a literal tower of photographs, papers, and zip-to-lock evidence bags. John sighed—he didn’t even notice that he’d gone to work, how would his truly unobservant best friend notice he’d lost a patient today and was particularly broken up by it? It made him surprisingly angry—why was he the only one that cared that this young girl was dead? “Yeah, whatever you say.” John murmured in passing, slipping off to the bathroom for a well-deserved shower and pajamas.

But it didn’t go unnoticed—nothing ever does. 

John was still toweling off his hair when he crossed into the kitchen, foraging for edible food. He raised one eyebrow at the steaming cup of tea on the table and the completely dressed and manicured Sherlock behind it. “Is this an intervention?” John teased, having watched the nurses watch terrible American television in the on-call room. “What made her so different, John?” John knit is brows—was what he playing at? 

“Beg pardon?” 

“The female patient, John. You’re usually sentimental and lose patients infrequently—of course, as both parts fact and perfunctory comforting words it’s never truly your fault.” 

John rubbed his chin and licked his bottom lip, his telltale signs of being uncomfortable. “She died.” He said simply and softly, attempting to keep his tone even. “People die every day John,” Sherlock started, eyelids lowered into philosophical slits. “so why are you so, for lack of a better word, sad?” John stared for a moment, a million questions on every cell on the tip of his tongue: why the concern now? Why did Sherlock care? Was this an experiment? Did he want to see John cry?

Ask and ye shall receive. 

“She was a student, hardly twenty years old. Tall, slim, dyed red hair and you could just tell by how she looked and what she wore that she was intelligent and respected and well looked after. Her parents loved her. She probably had a lad somewhere who was mad about her. How she ended up on my table,” John paused with a clearing of his throat, gathering himself and taking a long pull of tea, wishing for something stronger. “was a freak accident. The cab she was in swerved to avoid hitting someone who’d slipped off of the curb. She was-she was,” Sherlock keep his steely eyes locked on John, nodding for him to continue. “ejected, from the cab and flew for quite some distance before skidding for another half that. Massive, I mean absolutely massive swelling in the brain.” His voice cracked as he pressed on. “T-the surgery was perfect, absolutely perfect and, and textbook and right. We were blindly hopeful—we knew could save her face, we could graft skin to cover her road rash. But she would never walk, never study, never speak ever again. I lost her brain, Sherlock, and she quit on me.”

Sherlock had rarely seen children sob openly, as they were always escorted to rejoin their beloved nannies, but never in his adult life has he seen a grown, hardened man cry. He blinked, watching as John turned slightly in his chair so he could draw is knees up and rest his cupped hands on them, catching tears like they were rain water. It was as if Sherlock didn’t exist, the only thing that existed was the student who was now on a slab somewhere. “John,” He ventured hesitantly, attempting to pierce the bubble that surrounded John. John only seemed to sob harder, his face twisted in my believable grief. Sherlock rested a hand on his own collar, tapping out 4/4 time in an attempt to ground himself, to calm himself. Guilt bubbled up between dits and dahs.  
Oh, what have I done? 

“John.” He tried again, with more resolve but no result. Sherlock slid off of his chair, moving to cross the kitchen. What now? Pat his back, tell him to cheer up? Hug him? He reached an unsure hand out, placing it on his shoulder before coming to crouch in front of him. “John.” He repeated, but this time softer, with an edge of fear to his voice—he was scared for John. What now what now what now what now?

I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared. 

Me too. 

John kept their fingers intertwined to the webbing, grounding himself to something real as they sat on the couch, tears drying on the faced and tea getting cold on the table. They’d sat in silence for a long, long time after Sherlock and moved them to the couch so he could be closer to John. Something about the considerate, physical contact of friends, something about sadness, something about vulnerability. John, utterly and absolutely exhausted, rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder with much abandon. “John,” Sherlock tentatively explored, looking straight ahead into the furthest corners of the sitting room. John could muster little more than a grunt. “What was her name?” John shook his head, an uncomfortable, sad chuckle leaving his mouth. “Honestly? I don’t know. Her chart read J. Fey. Jane Fey? Jennifer Fey?” Sherlock simply nodded.

J. Fey’s parents had asked Dr. Watson to the funeral sometime later. Of course Miss Fey would have been in London on an archive expedition from Clydebank and they’d have to take the train to Scotland—it would serve to make John guiltier about never visiting his Gran or cousins in the North. Of course her parents would thank him and be simpering and sweet. Of course the funeral was packed. Of course there were pipers. Of course it was a tasteful but lash affair. Of course it wasn’t his fault. 

Unexpectedly, Sherlock was incredibly well behaved: sweet, kind, and understanding, gentle and with pleasant deductions there were more of a fun party trick than a ruthless, sharp edged tool. However, he was still incredibly elusive, as John had lost track of him when it was time to go. He scanned faces as people left, looking for that git of a flatmate, grumbling to himself about how everything always had to be about the mysterious consulting detective. That train of thought derailed when he’d located Sherlock. 

A respectful distance from the headstone stood the monolith, coat fluttering in the wind of an impending storm. Gripped tightly in his fist was an incredibly lovely but expensive arrangement of flowers—white crocuses and cosmos with springs of green centered on the melancholy purple of Scottish thistle. He stood with his head bowed, chin tucked in toward his chest again the cold. He was just thinking, like normal, but there was warmth to it. As simply as he stood he placed the bouquet down and sauntered off toward John, reminding him that the train would be leaving shortly. 

They never spoke about the funeral or Sherlock’s reaction, but it was, perhaps somewhat distastefully, a happy and fixed moment in time for John, for his career, for his friendship.


End file.
